By the time you read this, the conference is over. But there’s still a story to tell about it.

Months ago I was invited to lead the worship at a meeting of religious education professionals at Craigville, a yearly tradition for this group. I was happy to accept. Craigville has provided lots of great memories for me in my 22 years of living on the Cape.

One of those memories involves Kirk Jones.

Some years ago, for a week of continuing education, I chose a seminar that Kirk was giving at Craigville. His topic was social justice.

Kirk offered not only academic knowledge, but friendship. In those quiet summer days at Craigville, I could listen to Kirk’s thoughts and also not have to be one of those seminarians who felt they had to take down every word he said on the innovation of the day – the laptop.

Kirk cared about his subject and he gave me fresh strength to care.

Two years ago, a friend and I attended a seminar that Kirk gave at the College of Preachers at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC. He called it “The Jazz of Preaching.”

When I arrived at the seminar, Kirk looked me in the eye and said, “I know you from somewhere.”

I’m terrible at remembering people’s faces and amazed at people who can. So, amazed, I just shrugged and said, “Craigville. Cape Cod.”

“Yes!” said Kirk. And I knew that he meant it. We shared some common memories of the week.

Kirk spoke a lot about jazz in D.C. He showed jazz videos. He inspired us to try new ways to preach.

I had brought, as Kirk had asked, a previously-delivered sermon: “The Seven-Mile Resurrection,” my retelling of the story of the walk to Emmaus from the Gospel of Luke. It’s the story of two disciples who meet the Risen Christ on the evening of Easter but do not recognize him.

Kirk’s challenge to me, in that “Jazz of Preaching” seminar, was to try it without notes. It’s still my favorite sermon, and I preached it again when Kirk and I spoke and led worship at the conference in Craigville this week.

There are other memories of Craigville, too: Dick and Muriel Eggers were president of the board and office secretary, respectively, for many of the years when I was executive director of the Cape Cod Council of Churches; Dick, in turn, was the director of the Craigville conference center.

Another time, I preached at one of the Tabernacle’s summer services. A retired theology professor heard my story based upon the teaching of Jesus, “you have no part in me unless you eat of my flesh…” I told of how my grandmother, hospitalized just 12 weeks before she would die, had saved a banana from her lunch tray when I came upstairs to see her – my first hospital visit ever and, the nurses made sure I knew, an exception to strict rules against children under 12 visiting patients (I was 11). “I never thought I’d ever cry over a banana,” the professor told me after the service.

A few days ago, I needed to drop off some material to Cindy Fiscus, one of the leaders of the conference where I was to preach this week. There had been a small fire in the Tabernacle, Cindy told me.

We dashed over to Craigville to see how things were.Thanks to Kathy Knowles, head of housekeeping, who had discovered the fire; Damon Franz, head of maintenance, who had come to her aid; the COMM fire department, whose response time had been “impeccable,” according to Franz, a treasure that is about 137 years was saved.